Choices
by A.R. Bellance
Summary: Christine chose life with Erik over the death of Raoul that night, as Erik chose to free her..But what if he didn't? After all, choices are never easy..
1. Default Chapter

_A/N: Since there are soo many scenarios like these out there, I thought I'd try one. A warning, however: I do not write sappy 'he's-really-a-good-person-' Erik. He is too twistedly brilliant to be mutated in such a manner as many on write, and so this is (I hope) more in character for Erik.._

_And I might actaully continue it, if someone coughYOUcough leaves me a review..Flame me, idolize me, I don't care, just respond. _

_Just...forget about the mob. They 'aint coming. It is my FIRM belief that if, in the some-odd years there was believed to be an Opera Ghost that if no one could find it then, they can't JUST because Daae was kidnapped..grumbles stupid Daae..._

_Oh, and it may or may not end up an E/C (although I do love the pairing). It depends on what sort of mood I'm in when I write the last chapter._

_Disclaimer: If I -really- owned anything from Phantom, do you really think I'd be here?_

_"You try my patience, make your choice!" _The words, raw and hard, cut into Christine as effectively as any physical blow could have.

A choice.

Erik or Raoul.

Heaven or hell.

But it wouldn't be a pure heaven, Christine reminded herself. It would be tainted - tainted with her love's blood. Her freedom for Raoul's death.

The choice was simple.

There was no choice.

Christine couldn't breathe.

She didn't even spare a glance as the beautiful silk of the accursed gown was ruined by the water. She just kept walking, focusing on the man in front of her, trying to block out her fiancee's horrified face.

_"Pitiful creature of darkness," _she sang as she'd been taught, ignoring the shaking of her hands. "What kind of life have you known?" She was moving forward almost automatically.

The dominant part of her, the passionate part, was screaming at her to run, to turn back, but it was the small image of Raoul's mangled body that kept her going. Towards his would be killer.

_"What kind of life have you known?" _Time seemed suspended. There was no Raoul, there was no choice; there was only her and Erik.

_"God give me courage to show you, you are not alone!" _

With that desperate cry, Christine threw herself forward into Erik's stunned embrace. Into the kiss that was everything a kiss should not be. On Christine's part, there was loathing, disgust, and..something else Christine did not have the nerve to name; for Erik there was only shock.

The silence of the room was broken only by Erik's own broken voice.

_"Go now, wait here, the boy can go free." _Her heart sank, but Christine was allowed to breathe again, as was Raoul. As she sank to the floor in silence, Raoul, too terrified for her safety, was led away with no resistence. He didn't speak; Christine already knew what he was saying.

_What have you done?_

Her eyes swam over with tears, and Christine was only conscious long enough to hear Erik's melodious voice as he placed her on the bed.

_"Christine, I love you…"_


	2. Wanderings of a Fragile Mind

_A/N: 102 reads and only two reviews ..slow burn…_

_Sorry about the last ch. Being so short..It was basically the prologue, and short little wifts are my specialty. This will be longer, Jane promises!_

_Disclaimer: Amazing, but I STILL don't own Phantom…_

She was on the bed again, a piece of clandestine irony Erik coveted. For one who claimed to despise him so, Christine seemed to end up there a lot, rather in the arms that boy. _No thanks to him_, that voice in the back of his head whispered, the one who'd entered his life the same day as Christine.

_His conscience? _Erik didn't believe so. Not after all these years, when he finally had Christine as his own. Erik refused to believe it. God hadn't seemed incline to give him one, along with many other things, when he'd been born. Or perhaps it had been his mother's fault? It didn't matter. The list of those who'd wronged him stretched back too far for him to remember.

Christine shifted, the red and black satin of the bed sheets moving with her, and Erik froze. He didn't want to have to speak with her, to see the pain on her face, the pain he, _Erik_, had caused her. He was a coward. He didn't deserve her, yet would never let her go. Christine was his; Erik had won her, _saved _her from the boy. Soon she'd appreciate it.

With that in mind, Erik began to move, albeit softly, around the room, rearranging things for the one thousandth time for her comfort, or simply staring at her. Her soft russet curls, which melded so perfectly with her strong Grecian features, were mussed and fell softly around her. She'd brought a hand upward in her sleep, clutching her fist tightly. Gently, Erik glided over and un-pried the fingers. He almost allowed a startled cry to escape his lips when he saw what was there; a perfectly cut diamond ring, set in an elegant gold ornament. Bringing it up to the light, Erik threw it as hard as he could at the wall, which did no damage, and replaced it with his own plain, dilapidated band.

It didn't do justice on the hand of a Goddess, but it would have to do. It was the one thing Erik had that had belonged to his poor, pitiful mother; it brought him a sort of sick satisfaction to see it on the hand of his beloved. Soon to be his wife. _His._ The thought sent a giddy shiver through him now, a mix of delight and anxiety. Christine would hate him when she awoke; that much Erik knew. He could only hope that one day she would learn to tolerate him, even with the horrid monstrosity that was his face,

But Erik would dwell on that later. He had more important things to do, and one required immediate attention. Drawing himself to Christine's side once more, Erik allowed himself one moment to sweep a stray curl from her face, reveling in the tremor just that simple act of touch sent through him. Christine didn't seem to be awakening anytime soon; Erik silently made his way to his desk, shoving the accumulated clutter to one side, and taking up his customary red ink. He had a very special letter to write, one that needed all of his expected signs.

_My Dear Managers:_

_As you surely witnessed the events of last night's performance, I am writing to inform you of Miss Daae's **temporary** retreat from the stage. Let it be understood that she will be coming back, and I shall expect her to ascend to her natural role of replacing that toad Carlotta._

_You should also be aware that I am going to be requiring a higher salary. My wife shall have all she desires, and I will expect you, gentlemen, to pay for it. _

_I remain, as always,_

_O.G._

With that completed, Erik turned hurriedly from the desk, anxious to get out of the house that, once perfect for him, seemed too small to hide in.

_(A/N: Erlack..It's official, my work is too short…I tried to make it longer, but I have to figure out where I'm going with the story..)_


	3. Behind the Opera House Curtains

_A/N: Haha, I finally finished…Just a quick note to say that I shall be on holiday for a few weeks, and will hopefully post the next chapter when I get back.And I love all of my reviewers. Seriously, I may start a fan club dedicated to reviews in general, I love them so much. Although debatably all they do is build my already overlarge ego. But I still love them. And I must specifically thank PhantomsHeart for tapering my problem down to a tee, and tell Amanda17 that this story is also over on Aria, and they tell you how many times it's been viewed. _

_Disclaimer: Wow, amazingly, I still don't own anything to do with Phantom. Guy is mine, but I will willingly trade him for Erik if I can get ahold of the requested documents. _

To an outsider, the atmosphere of the famed _Opera Populaire _could only be described as odd. Or at least that was what Guy Belamy got from it as he hurried up the ornate golden steps into the building. As a trusted manservant to an auspicious nobleman, Guy occasionally made his way to the Opera to purchase tickets for his employer, like today. But today was _slightly _different.

Instead of practicing, the ballet rats were fluttering around the hallways nervously, sticking so close to one another that it would appear they were afraid of getting lost. There was no laughter amongst them when Guy casually began to flirt with a few - not even a nervous giggle from the bold ones. They retreated back to their dormitories as awkwardly as a ballerina could, clutching the rags they wore for day to day use close for comfort.

Guy shook his head sadly, and walked on. It was not in Guy's nature to be curious about his surroundings, but as he'd said, today was different. Guy had, of course, heard of the scandal that occurred two nights ago, when the famed singer Christine Daae had been kidnapped. That was the very reason Guy was here today - his employer had asked him to purchase tickets in advance, to make sure he got a good gossip opportunity.

This was indeed very odd. With no known practice going on, stage hands and performers alike filled the hallways leading to the manager's office, and they gawked suspiciously as Guy passed. One even had the nerve to glare when Guy knocked loudly on the door.

There was no answer, and Guy was about the knock again when the same stagehand who'd glowered at him earlier stopped him, motioning Guy to be silent. Guy was perplexed at first, but when shouting started to be heard from the manager's office it was soon dissolved. A whiny, searing voice Guy knew to be one of the managers mingled with the deep tenor of a stranger's richly cultured one.

"Please Monsieur, we have done all we can…" The unknown manager spoke, and was cut off, by the stranger.

"All you can? My God, Richard! You have done nothing! _Christine _has been down there for almost a day! God knows what is happening to her!" His speech ended in choking sobs, and Guy could distinctly hear a small _thud_, as if the man had fallen into a chair. "_Christine.."_

A faint scuffling ensued, which seemed to end in one of the men crawling from his chair.

"Please Monsieur, we _have_ done something." The previously hushed tone of the third person, whom Guy presumed to be Moncharmin, spoke only to be met with silence from the other two. The stranger, after a long pause seemed only to get across a few lines.

"And what, pray tell me, would that be?"

"We received a note." The reply to this was very hushed, almost melodramatic in nature.

"A note, Monsieur's? You call a _note _ helpful?" The same tone was employed by Moncharmin once more, only almost silent, so that neither Guy nor the other ones listening could tell what was being said. The reaction, though, was viewed by all as the door swung open revealing a tall blonde man with an expression of utmost fury on his face.

He was handsome, albeit a bit feminine looking, and looked thoroughly disheveled, with unkempt locks and red, bloodshot eyes. He was also recognized immediately by all the members of the darkened hallway. Raoul deChagney, patron, regular attendee of L'Opera Populaire, and most notable of late, Fiancée to the infamous Christine Daae.

The tormented Viscount needed only a second to survey the room before his infrequent rage became prominent once more. With a cry of subdued fury, the Viscount ordered all in he room out, and all complied. Hurriedly. Guy himself hesitated only slightly - his employer's wrath was something to rival the Viscount's should he not receive his tickets - but a single terrifying scowl from the present aristocrat hurried him out the door, just in time to see the Viscount deChagney fall to his knees in anguish.

An anguish that seemed endless, and no matter how hard Raoul tried, inescapable. Everything had been so perfect, so _right!_ He and Christine would escape that monster, and start a new life together, away from Paris, away from the Opera, and most importantly, away from its Phantom.

But fate seemed to have other plans in mind that night, when Raoul had failed Christine, and delivered her into the hands of the very evil he'd sworn to protect her from. Raoul had been so confident, so utterly stupid and confident, that his plan would work, that the police would be able to find the Phantom, this Erik Christine had so often spoke of, and make sure he could never so much as speak to Christine, let alone bewitch her like he had before.

Raoul had failed. That night, after Christine had - No, Raoul reminded himself. He would not speak of that, of a Christine who was so obviously _not _in her right mind. Christine had made it clear to Erik that she would stay with him in exchange for Raoul's life. She had _sacrificed_ herself for Raoul. And he had done nothing.

Erik had wasted no time after they were out of Christine's sight before knocking Raoul out cold. Raoul still didn't know by what miracle Erik had spared his life that night, but he did remember waking up outside of the Opera Populaire, ignored and inconspicuous to the stampeding herd attempting to flee the building, or the other one trying to make its way in. There was still a slight cloud of haze around him, but he was conscious enough to realize what had happened, and to make an attempt at stumbling along with the rest of the crowd.

There was pure hysteria in the air, if not from what had taken place onstage, then from the crash of the chandelier, which had so nearly destroyed the Opera House. By the time Raoul had managed to get anywhere near the door, the place was crawling with people, who were joined by ones who were actually doing something constructive, namely the police, firefighters, and a variety of doctors and nurses who were from the local hospital.

It was one of the nurses who found Raoul. Half drowned, he must've looked like something from a nightmare. The nameless caretaker forcefully dragged Raoul to an ambulance - he wasn't willing to leave Christine without a fight. Someone had alerted his brother, Philip, of his condition, and he'd been transferred back to his estate the next day.

Philip hadn't been thrilled that morning when Raoul had stubbornly insisted on trudging back to the Opera House to find Christine. In Philip's mind, Raoul was as good as insane, and the girl, well, Philip had not cared about Christine to begin with. Especially when she'd seemingly set her eye on Raoul, Philip had tried to intervene, filling Raoul's mind with the possibility of a scandal should he marry a mere singer.

Raoul had paid little concern to his brother's wishes then, and he certainly wasn't going to stop now. He had raced to the Opera House, only to pick up where he'd left off.

The manager's had done nothing, and Christine was engaged to a madman.


	4. Escape Into Dreams

_A/N: Okay, folks, it's time to clear a few things up: Point A, I have no idea what pairing this is going to end up with. B, I do not intend this to be a Raoul bashing fic. (He's not that bad, for a fop.) So no need to worry, Lunasariel…Although I prefer to read E/C fics, I am by no means prejudiced against Raoul. Ignore the fop comment. Blame the movie. C, This is based on the movie/play/Leroux book. My own little mixture. It'd be part Kay, too, if I could get my hands on one._

_Sorry about the long wait; I just got back from vacation. And then I went camping. No computer access whatsoever..grumbles But this chapter is long(ish) for me. Sort of._

Erik edged slowly into his cave, keeping to the shadows so as not to disturb Christine. The reaction to his letter, more or less, had been perfect. If, before his letter, members of the Opera had been scared, they were now terrified. The letter, _his _letter, had duly reminded them of the Opera Ghost's existence, and firmly reinstated the fact that he was going no where. Erik knew, from listening through cracks in walls and such, that most of the Opera cared less if Christine Daae returned to them. She was another reminder of the Ghost, another unpleasant token of first Buquet, and now Piangi's necessary demises.

Some even believed that Christine was the witch behind a plot to ensnare both his and that disgusting excuse for a Vicomte. They claimed that it was some insane lust for power - the ambition of outshining Carlotta and becoming a superb lead Soprano, as well as crawling her way up into aristocracy by marrying the Vicomte. Some even went as far to suggest that it was Christine herself who had talked Erik into kidnapping her - as a ruse to get the Vicomte to come and find her, a chance for her to play innocent maiden for him. Erik allowed a smile to assemble on his face as he approached the bed once more, thinking how the rumors could not be farther from the truth. Christine needed no playacting. And she was by no means vying for his affections.

Erik still shuddered to think of what he had done, no, what he had been forced to do to Christine. Kidnapping her was not something he was proud of, Erik admitted, but it was necessary. Christine, however, didn't seem to think so. The memory of when she'd awoke the next morning was something Erik was not fond of, when Christine had seemingly forgotten her promise, her _vow_ to Erik.

Eyes the color of liquid amber greeted him as he crossed the room, the only sign of acknowledgement Christine gave him as she lay in the exact position he'd left her in - right down to the hand by her face. She did not seem to realize he'd replaced the rings. It seemed ironic that Christine's eyes should be a color so mysterious, as opposed to virginal blue, but still reveal so much. Erik could always tell how she was feeling, just by looking at those eyes. Right now he saw the glossy indifference that a fresh morning brought, but they were tainted with an iced curtain of fear that she could not quite grasp. Yet.

Erik did not speak right away, not wishing to break the mood. Instead he sat softly, slowly on the bed, making sure not to startle her, and whispered, "Good morning, mon amour." Her eyes clouded over. She sat up sharply in the bed, and looked in a multitude of directions, and finally at her hands. "You have slept for a long time." He waited for a reaction of some kind, and finally Christine deemed it necessary to comply.

"Where's Raoul?" the first words she'd spoken to him since that fateful night, not, Erik reflected dryly, the perfect start to their life together. His eyes narrowed in anger and annoyance. Why couldn't Christine accept that she was his? He'd thought she had, had labored under some delusion that Christine had given up hope for a rescue. He would even have gone far enough to suggest, perhaps, that Christine hadn't really _wanted _anyone to save her, that she was perfectly happy here with him.

Pointedly ignoring the question, Erik began pacing the room, watching her. His fingers itched to go back to the organ, but with Christine awake…

"Did you sleep well, my dear?" Erik inquired, using a dull, useless conversation to weaken the tense atmosphere around them. Christine merely nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the door.

"Where's Raoul?" she said even more softly, less demanding and more tearful. Erik moved in front of her fixation, and she looked away, at the wilting roses on her bed stand. Because even they were more appealing. Erik's fists tightened involuntarily, and he stalked towards the flowers instead, with half a mind to break the vase over her head. Why wouldn't she look at _him_?

"That is no longer important," Erik said tersely. "Would you like something to eat?" Christine looked at him incredulously. Another stab of annoyance hit him. Why couldn't she respond to normal conversation? Wasn't it normal for a man to inquire as to the state of his fiancé? Maybe he wasn't asking the right questions! Erik tried again. "How are you feeling?"

Those damningly deceptive eyes widened considerably. She was wide awake now, he noted glumly, and crawling away from him at an alarming rate. She was speaking again, speaking that intolerable name.

"What did you do with Raoul?" The _boy_. Erik nearly snorted with contempt. She thought he hadn't kept his promise!

"I let the boy go," he admonished softly. "Where he is now, I do not know. I have not felt compelled to check up on him," He added smugly. Christine looked to the door again, sadness marring her picturesque features. She didn't believe him. And he hadn't even lied.

Christine's pale, emaciated figure slowly made its way to the door, making sure to exit the bed as far from Erik as possible. She slowly pushed the heavy frame out of her way, seeming to glide effortlessly to the blackened lake. As she let the misty sheen that always enveloped the water surround her, she had never looked more ethereal. Or unattainable.

Still clothed in the muddied wedding dress, Christine simply stood in the exact same spot where she'd pledged her devotion to Erik just a few hours earlier. He had a nightgown for her - he had a whole wardrobe of disused costumes he'd collected for Christine . But she was still in the wedding dress, which Erik hadn't been able to bring himself to replace.

He couldn't see her from this angle, but Erik, at that moment standing where he was, would've sworn that Christine was crying in his soiled wedding dress, not caring that it was ruined.

That had been two days ago, and it had only gone downhill from their. Christine barely spoke, and when she did it was only a word or two. She was refusing to acknowledge, or at least discuss, what had taken place that night. Neither denying or accepting Erik, she moved listlessly through his home, taking and eating only a little of all that Erik offered her. Hardly an obedient, chivalrous fiancé, but she would learn. They were hardly pressed for time.

Erik himself was growing more and more frustrated with Christine's refusal to cooperate, so he didn't spend much time around her. He couldn't bear it, seeing his darling Christine in such a state, which happened every time he was around her.

So instead he did something Erik liked to think he excelled at - he spied. Peering at what the managers were up to, how the gossip had swayed, laughing at where the police had gone in their investigation (nowhere). Occasionally he'd even creep back into his cave and observe Christine, the lack of emotion that seemed to be permanently instilled on her face. Once or twice Erik (though not on purpose) came across the Viscount, looking, as he was all too pleased to say, exceptionally unwell.

deChagney was furious - _absolutely furious._ It was beautiful to watch his face contort in anger every time Erik's alias was mentioned.

"We have a new lead on the Opera Ghost," a young officer would inform the Vicomte, and Erik would struggle to overcome his urge to laugh, knowing full well that it was him, Erik, who'd placed it. It was even better to watch as the boy attempted to lead them back down to the lair, and to see the look on his face when he realized that it was pure luck (and Erik's convenient opening of the trapdoor) which had brought him down the first time. If Erik lived a normal life, he might have been inclined to state that he was at the top of his game in the career of an Opera Ghost. As it was, he could only sneer at his managers from afar, and skulk back to his lair, where the Love of His Life was wasting pathetically away.

_A/N: Well, it was longer…Albeit terribly late. I actually have an idea of where this is going now, and a possible pairing. evil cackle_

_Is it bad to be begging for constructive criticism? Well, I am. I really need some advice, whether I need to focus on action, dialogue, and whatnot. I've never really done this before; it'd be rather helpful. J_


End file.
